


Here Be Monsters

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: That Guy with the Glasses/Channel Awesome
Genre: Blood, F/F, Knife Play, TGWTG Big House AU, Unsafe BDSM, Violence, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Critic is in the mood for something a bit less... safe, & wanders off of the known bits of the metaphorical map.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Be Monsters

The Nostalgia Critic stood in front of Diamanda Hagan like some kind of pilgrim, which was ironic considering Diamanda's atheist sentiments. Then again, Diamanda Hagan was also a god (… sort of), and the Nostalgia Critic wasn't sure she wanted to wrap her head around all of that. Other people origin stories tend to be complicated. “So... so could you possibly... I mean... maybe... hurt me?” She felt silly being so nervous, stuttering so much. She stood in front of Diamanda Hagan, who was framed by the door frame of her room. The Critic was twisting her hat in her hands, eyes on her bare toes, which were curling against the worn wood floor.

Diamanda Hagan crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame, looking the Critic up and down. “Why the fuck should I?”

The Critic swallowed, biting her lip and keeping her eyes down. Then Diamanda's hand was under her chin, forcing her to look into Diamanda's eyes. 

“Well, I, uh....” The Critic hated the eye contact thing, the same way that she kind of hated Diamanda. But if anyone was going to hurt her the way she wanted, it would be Diamanda, wouldn't it?

“So you realize how fucking selfish it is just demand I hurt you?” Diamanda sounded almost like she was snarling, and the Critic felt the terror curling in her belly like some kind of worm made of ice. 

“I'm s-s-sorry,” the Critic stuttered, trying not to squirm away even though every instinct in her body was telling her to run. “Please, you can... you can punish me for it.” 

Hagan snorted, and she let go of the Critic's chin, grabbing her by the ponytail and forcing her head all the way back. The Critic felt the tears dripping down the edges of her face, off of her chin. 

“You're trying to manipulate me into hurting you the way you seem to think I will, aren't you?” She shook the fistful of brown hair, and the Critic felt like her eyeballs were rattling. “Or do you want me to absolve you of the sin of wanting to be hurt in the first place, or some bullshit like that?” She actually laughed, and the Critic felt her skin trying to crawl off, and she wasn't sure if she loved the hatred or hated the love of it. 

“Y-yes,” the Critic managed to get out, feeling herself shaking. 

“I want you to tell me,” Hagan kept her eyes on the Critic's, kept her hand in the Critic's hair. “Tell me you want me to hurt you. With none of that “safeword” bullshit. Just you feeling the consequences of annoying the evil god dictator.” 

“Yes, yes, please, I want you to hurt me without any of the safeword stuff, just hurting me, please....” She gulped, feeling ridiculous and vaguely embarrassed at how out of character it was for her to be crying and shaking and being so terrified. “Do you want me incite the wrath of the evil god dictator and call you an ugly crossdressing Joker wannabe to insight it, or would you prefer-” 

Diamanda Hagan yanked the Critic forward by the tie and her ponytail, somehow managing to slame the door behind her, and the Critic heard the click of her teeth before she felt them bite into her tongue. She made some kind of noise as the familiar copper-iron coating the inside of her mouth, beginning to drool. 

“We're doing this my way,” said Hagan, and she was pulling on the Critic's tie and the Critic's hair, and it was too tight, the pain was circling, and the knot of her tie was being forced against something delicate, and the Critic gasped and sobbed, falling onto the bed (when had she gotten to the bed? Who cared, when the pain in her scalp was bouncing off the pain in her mouth and the pain in her neck, when the world was getting some sort of weird fuzz around the edges), clawing at her throat.

“What happened to 'I want to experience the wrath of the evil dictator'? Or were you just playing some kind of stupid game? Are you just being the plucky protagonist going up against the big bad evil thing?” Hagan slid her fingers under the knot of the tie, loosening it enough to pull it roughly over the Critic's face, shoving the knot into the Critic's mouth. The blood would stain the fabric, and that annoyed the Critic enough that she felt a bit like her regular self. 

“That's not fair,” the Critic said, pulling the knot out, well aware of how weak her voice sounded. She was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole business. There was going to be a pretty huge bruise on her throat. “I can't really join the discussion if you're gonna gag -” The pain that flashed across the Critic's face was like a lightning bolt – a flash of brightness, then burning, the skin reddening and tightening. 

“Shut up,” Hagan growled, and she grabbed the Critic by the ankles and yanked her of the bed. “I was going to be nicer, but you obviously don't deserve it.” 

The floor made a hollow “thunk” noise when it hit the Critic's head, like an acorn falling onto a picnic table. Only bigger, and bonier. Okay, so less like an acorn. So metaphors weren't exactly her strong suit right now. Not when her whole body was throbbing and pulsing in pain and something else that she didn't know the name for.

“If you're going to be uncooperative, I'm going to treat you the way I'd treat any other prisoner who came wandering into my compound.” The Critic caught a flash of light reflecting off of metal, and when did Hagan get a knife? Where did Hagan get a knife? Who cared where Hagan got a knife, because something sharp and cold was moving across the Critic's chest, cutting her shirt and bra loose, the fabric nothing but rags against her skin. She was glad, in a distant part of her brain, that she had left her blazer back in her room. The cold air hit the bare skin when the fabric fell away, leaving her skin to pebble up with goosebumps.

The knife was very, very sharp, and the small cuts it opened up stung. The Critic was only barely registering that there was a bit of blood trickling out of a cut over her left breast (it tickled in an itchy sort of way), when the knot was shoved back into the Critic's mouth, and the strips of t-shirt were being used to bind the Critic's wrists together, leaving red marks into the delicate skin of her wrists. 

“You came here to hurt,” Diamanda said, and she forced the Critic's arms up and forward, revealing the Critic's breasts and belly. 

The Critic blushed, squirming, wishing she could cover her vulnerable stomach or her exposed breasts. She felt delicate, scared, and she didn't think she liked it. Then again, she had Diamanda crouching on top of her thighs like some kind of sexy, terrifying gargoyle crossed with a female version of the Joker. She was heavy, pinning the Critic to the ground. But wait – could gargoyles be sexy? Demona had been pretty hot, that was true, but....

Once again, the Critic heard the “crack” before she felt the pain, but when it hit, it felt like a hammer, or maybe an anvil in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. And now Diamanda's knees were digging into the Critic's thighs, and the pain bored into her and throbbed, making her toes curl and her cunt twitch.

“No. I see your mind wandering. You're concentrating on me.” Hagan grabbed the Critic's chin cruelly between her fingers, forcing the Critic to look the Lecher bitch in the face as her hits and punches rained down on the Critic's breasts, the impacts resonating like dubstep. “If you expect me to go to all this trouble, you better have your fucking mind on me.” 

But you like this kind of thing, the Critic wanted to say, but she was afraid. Afraid of the knife, and the way the smears of blood looked like fingerpaint on Diamanda's palms.

“No. Eyes. On. Me,” said Diamanda, and her fingers twisted the Critic's nipple like an oven timer, making the Critic gasp and sob, struggling to get out from under Hagan.

This hurt, and not the normal, fun kind of pain, but a deep, dangerous kind. The kind of pain that hints at trouble in the future. But her cunt was wet and sticky, and the blood in her mouth was almost sweet, saltier where it mixed with her tears. She didn't kniow if she could get away. She didn't know if she wanted to get away. 

“That's what I thought,” said Hagan, and the light behind her seemed to be giving her a halo, and wasn't that irony of ironies, the anti-theist god Mistress with a halo? The ridiculousity (really? Ridiculosity?) of it all made her want to start laughing, and the Critic felt her eyes crinkle in a laugh or at least a smile, but then Hagan's nails were digging into the Critic's nipple, and any humor died.

“Since you seem to find this so funny, I guess I'm not trying hard enough.” Hagan was climbing off of the Critic's thighs, and the Critic breathed a sigh of relief, until she could feel the cold of the knife against her thigh, slicing away the thin denim of her jeans. 

The first blow felt almost gentle, and then Hagan was digging her nails in, and the Critic sobbed and wriggled more, trying to get away, only not, her fingers starting to tingle as they fell asleep. 

“No, you asked for this, remember?” Diamanda's voice had gotten behind the Critic, and presumably, that meant the rest of Diamanda was behind the Critic as well, because that would make sense, right? The Critic wasn't sure when Diamanda had gotten behind her, but at that moment she didn't care, because it hurt, it all hurt, a throbbing, clanging pain. Then Hagan's hands were there, hard, painful nails digging into the Critic's arms, hauling her upright and into a sitting position. Hagan was leaning over the Critic, forcing the Critic's legs open, and one big hand was descending again and again, making the tender skin sing from the pain of it.

The Critic was crying, loud, ugly crying, and Hagan's hits were getting further and further inward, until she was slapping the Critic's cunt through the ripped up denim from the remains of her jeans, and the Critic was still bawling, from the sting on her clit, dull, painful throbbing that wsa twisting and twitching inside of her.

Hagan gabbed the Critic's hair and forced her head all the way back, mouth next to her ear. “Remember,” she hissed, yanking for emphasis, “you asked for this.”

The Critic came like an eartquake, sobbing from the pain of it, and the loving hatred, and the hated love.


End file.
